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"Now, borne impetuous o'er the boiling deeps
Her course to Attic shores the vessel keeps;
The pilots, as the waves behind her swell,
Still with the wheeling stern their force repel.

So they direct the flying bark before

Th' impelling floods, that lash her to the shore.
As some benighted traveler, through the shade,
Explores the devious path with heart dismay'd;
While prowling savages behind him roar,
And yawning pits and quagmires lurk before.

And now Athenian mountains they descry,
And o'er the surge Colonna frowns on high;
Beside the cape's projecting verge are placed
A range of columns, long by time defaced;
First planted by devotion to sustain,

In elder times, Tritonia's sacred fane,

Foams the wild beach below, with maddening rage,
Where waves and rocks a dreadful combat wage.

And now, while wing'd with ruin from on high,
Through the rent clouds the ragged lightnings fly,
A flash, quick glancing on the nerves of light,
Struck the pale helmsman with eternal night.

The vessel, while the dread event draws nigh,
Seems more impatient o'er the waves to fly;
Fate spurs her on; thus issuing from afar,
Advances to the sun some blazing star;
And, as it feels th' attraction's kindling force,
Springs forward with accelerated course.
When mournful look the seamen eyed the strand,
Where Death's inexorable jaws expand;
Swift from their minds elapsed all dangers past,
As, dumb with terror, they beheld the last.

The genius of the deep, on rapid wing,
The black eventful moment seem'd to bring;
The fatal sisters on the surge before,
Yoked their infernal horses to the prore."

The ship is near its end.

"Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies,
Her shattered top half-buried in the skies,
Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground-
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound.
Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels,
And quivering with the wound, in torment reels.
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes,
The bleeding bull, beneath the murderer's blows.
Again she plunges: hark! a second shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock.
Down on the vale of Death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes
In wild despair, while yet another stroke,
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak;
Till, like the mine, in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder torn, her frame divides,
And crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides."

If we had not extended these extracts almost too far already, it would be pleasing to give more of the separate pictures of beauty in which the poem abounds. Of the crew, but three were saved, and Falconer was

one of them. His genius has invested Cape Colonna with an interest not its own, and the wreck of the Britannia may be remembered as long as the destruction of the Spanish Armada.

After publishing this poem, Falconer, by the advice of the Duke of York (to whom, as before mentioned, he had dedicated it), left the merchant service, and entered the Royal George as midshipman. After this ship was paid off, rather than wait until his time of service would allow him to become lieutenant, he accepted the appointment of purser on board the Glory frigate. It was not long before this vessel was laid up in ordinary, and the poet (who in the mean time was married to an accomplished lady) engaged in various literary pursuits. The most important of them was the compilation of a Universal Marine Dictionary, a work which has been approved by the professional men of the navy, as of great utility.

Falconer is said to have been in person slender and somewhat below the middling height, with a weather-beaten countenance, and an address rather awkward and forbidding. His mind was inquisitive and keenly observing. He was prone to controversy and satire, but full of good humor, and, like most of his profession, frank, generous, and kind. Having removed to London, he seems to have suffered from poverty. Entering into the politics of the times, he wrote a satire on Lord Chatham, Wilkes, and Churchill, which failed. In 1768, Mr. Murray, a bookseller, proposed that he should unite with him as a partner in business, which it is probable that he would have done, had he not been appointed to the pursership of the frigate Aurora, bound to India. The frigate was to carry out three gentlemen, as supervisors of the affairs of the East India Company, and he was promised the office of private secretary; so that his prospects seemed favorable. The ship sailed from England, Sept. 30, 1769, touched at the Cape as is usual, and thenceforward was never heard of. She probably foundered in the Mozambique Channel, and no "tuneful Arion" was left to tell the melancholy fate of the lost. It seems singular that he who most eloquently and beautifully commemorated the perils of the sea, should himself have been so often subjected to them; and should, at last, be mysteriously gathered to the profound and secret caverns of the deep, as if the waves were greedy of the whole of him who had so well sung of their smiles and their wrath.

THE WONDERS of Nature.-The Cocoy queen beetle is about an inch and a quarter in length, and, what is wonderful to relate, she carries by her side, just above her waist, two brilliant lamps, which she lights up at pleasure with the solar phosphorus furnished her by nature. These little lamps do not flash and glimmer, like that of the fire-fly, but give as steady a light as the gas-light, exhibiting two perfect spheres, as large as a minute pearl, which affords light enough in the darkest night to enable one to read print by them. On carrying her into a dark closet in the day-time, she immediately illuminates her lamps, and instantly extinguishes them on coming again into the light.

THE TIME OF THE FALLING SNOW.

BY GEORGE LIPPARD.

THE tears come into my eyes when the snow falls, for it was in the time of falling snow she died. A dreary morning, cold and desolate, with sleet pattering on the window pane, and snow upon the frozen ground. The tower of the church, which you could see from the window of the dead chamber, rose drearily and alone into a leaden sky. And I can see her now, by the light that comes but dimly through the halfdrawn curtains. The face stricken by death-those eyes turned yearning to Heaven, and filled with light that shone upon them from the better world; those cold, thin hands, clasped over the sunken breast-I can see her now, even as she looked in the moment before she died. Oh, if you had all the power of expression that language in its brightest flights afford, you could not paint the agony and rapture of the dying face. She knew us all-knew that she was the last of many we had given to the grave. She called us by name, and told us how hard it was to part with us, and in the same breath, a quick gasping breath, for she was struggling between time and eternity; she told us how good it was to go home.

We watched her as she died. One moment her eyes were all light, the next they were filmy and cold. And I can remember how I went from that death room leaving her upon her death bed, even as the life had just passed her lips. How I hurried out into the cold, and felt it good to feel the sleet upon my face, and drink of the cold winter air with delight. How I went to work, and amid the care and clamor of work, endeavor to drown the thoughts of her who all the while lay cold and beautiful in my home, attired for the coffin and the grave-yard, her thin, white hand enfolded on her shroud. And I can remember how I came home at night, and went into my room and wrote-still cherishing a latent thought that she was not dead, but only waiting for me to come and read to her what I had written. And when I had written-I remember it yet I rose up and took the manuscript in my hand, and placed that hand upon the door which led into the next room. I had forgotten she was dead! It had been my custom to read to her what I had written, and I had unconsciously fallen into the old habit. My hand was on the door-then, and not till then, did the truth rush on me, that she was not sitting in her chair awaiting me, but that she was laid upon her bed, with her hands upon her bosom. That she was dead? The thought, I say, rushed upon me-it crushed me back against the wall like a blow from a strong arm, and for a long time held me there, choking and gasping without power to say a word

And I can remember how we took her forth on the last day of the year, when the sun was out, and snow glistening in his beams, and the blue sky was over the wintry earth-how we took her forth and laid her in her grave, amid the graves of her people, and heard the rattling of the frozen clouds upon her coffin lid.

And also do I remember, that for days, and weeks, and months after she was gone (I cannot say dead,) I would come home at evening, ex

And how when I saw her place va

pecting to find her there as of old. cant, the truth would rush upon me fresh, just as though she had only died the moment before.

This is why tears comes into my eyes when the snow falls.

And when I sit in my room and look out upon the leaden sky and new fallen snow, I see her dying face again. I see the book in which she wrote her name the day before she died-I see the door which opens into the room, and through the panels I can see her sitting there, waiting for me to come and read to her But, for all this, I feel, I know, that she is not dead. For I can see her young and beautiful, sitting by calm waters in the other land, and in her hands she holds a child whose soul has just escaped from clay to God. And I know that they are there together the sister who died in autumn. And I know that I shall meet them there.

CHANGES IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

FEW Scholars, even, are aware of the great changes through which the English language has passed in successive centuries. We give from the British Banner, specimens of the Lord's Prayer, as used at various periods in English history.

A. D. 1158.—Fader ure in heune, haleweide beith thi neune, cumen thi kuneriche, thi wille beoth idon in heune, and in erthe. The eueryeh dawe bried, gif ous thilk dawe. And vorzif ure dettes as vi yorsifen ure dettoures. And lene ous nought into temtatioun, bot delyvor ous of uvel. Amen.

A. D. 1300.-Fadir ure in heavene, Halewyd by thi name, thi kingdom come, thi wille be don as in hevene and in erthe. Oure urche dayes bred give us to dape. And forgive us oure dettes as we forgive our dettoures. And lede us not into temptation, Bote delyverr us of yvel. Amen.

A. D. 1380.-Oure fadir that art in heunes, hallowid be thi name, thi name, thi kingdome come to, be thi wille done in erthe as in heune, geve to us this day our breed oure other substaunce, forgen to us our dettis as we forgauen to oure dettouris, lede us not into temptation; but delyuer us yeul. Amen.

A. D. 1524.-0 oure father which arte in heven, hallowed be thy name. Let thy kingdome come. Thy wyall be fulfilled as well in earth as it ys in heven. Give vs this day oure dayly brede. And forgeve vs our treaspases even as we forgeve our treaspacers. And lede vs not into temptacioun, but delyver us from evell. For thyne is the kingdome and the power and the glorye for ever. Amen.

A. D. 1581.-Ovr father which art in heauen, sanctified be thy name. Let thy kingdom come. Thy will be donef as in heauen, in earth also. Giue vs to day our supersubstantial bread. And forgive vs our dettes as we forgive our detters. And lede us not into temptation. But deliuer us from evil. Amen.

A. D. 1611.-Our father which art in heauen, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdome come. Thy will be done ie earth, as it is in heaune.— Give vs this day our dayly bread. And forgive vs our debts as we forgive our debtors. And lede vs not into temptation, but deliuer vs from euil. For thine is the kingdome, and the power, and the glory for euer. Amen.

THE GUARDIAN:

A Magazine Devoted to the Interests of Young Men and Ladies.

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"With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;

This is the field and acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow!"

WE would fail to communicate all we desire, and all we regard as necessary to be said on this subject, did we not yet show that according to the sense and spirit of christianity, christian burial must be distinctively, wholly, and decidedly christian.

Burial must be in all respects a religious act-an act of the church. The dead must no more be sundered from the church in their death than in their life. They are still in her hands-they die, rest, and rise in her communion. The church takes care of their souls while living, and of their bodies when dead. The offices of the church ought to be administered to the dying, devout men of the church-ought, as they did Stephen, carry them to their burial; the pastors of the church ought to pronounce the office of burial over their graves, and the church ought to possess and control, consecrate and preserve, ornament and visit, the sacred ground where their bodies rest till the resurrection of the just.

The

Whoever takes a correct view of the church will need no farther argument on this point. Her communion is not broken by death. church militant and triumphant are one:

"All joined in Christ the living head
And in His grace partake."

The saints have their home in this communion here; rest in it in the hopeful slumbers of death, and rise and live forever in it in heaven; and in this communion the body as well as the soul is included. It would be the strangest contradiction of her claims and promises, should she hand over the bodies, whose resurrection in union with herself she proclaims, into the hands of the world for burial and protection-planting the germs of the resurrection into the uncovenanted commons of the world.

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